The story of SHANGO's visit to the white couple's home continues from where it last stopped . . .
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While I’m doing this, I am aware of Master Shango reviewing the body of my white wife. That’s exactly the word, the writer in me says: reviewing. There is no emotion. He is a critic, an expert, considering not just the white wife but how their new dynamic will play out through her naked white body. She struggles with the urge to recoil when he reaches for her but he grabs the bush that she has not trimmed and he pulls her toward him.
“Stay,” he commands.
She stays, not that there was ever any doubt. I think of how there is no respect in his touch, no loving caress. I am insanely turned on at how, in one gesture, he has turned that little pussy temple I have so often loved and worshipped into his cum bucket. The womb I have entered so often is now just a place to pleasure him…and, so doing, to liberate the repressed demon in her. I wonder how she could have suppressed what I know is there for so long. What damage has it done to her psyche to be ‘normal’? How useless I am, not being able to liberate her or use her for my pleasure. I feel sudden contempt for ‘lovemaking.’ Master Shango and his about-to-be Black Cock Slut are going to visit the foundation of all yin and yang by Fucking.
I am back, at my white wife’s side now. Master Shango allows himself to smirk at me, at my hard boi cock. He tells me not to go near it. I knew that, just as I know how to answer: “Yes, Master.”
He turns his attention back to my white wife, his Black Cock Slut in training. He is still the critic as he reaches behind her and squeezes her full white ass. She winces. He squeezes harder, digging his nails into her smooth, soft flesh until she relaxes. She realizes she had better chill or he’ll smack her again. She exhales and eases. He draws his hands back around, and without hesitation or preamble puts his thumbs on her pussy lips. He tells her he likes to see his belongings. Since she is not shaved, he orders her to stand with her legs wide apart. She complies. His thumbs move around her white pussy lips.
“Nice and plump,” he says. A thumb goes higher. “Big clit, too. I like that.”
He runs an index finger between her lips, from ass to clit. I can tell from the little smile on his lips that there are the first hints of dampness. He snickers as if to say ‘they always give themselves away.’ He asks if she’s had kids. She says no.
“No, sir!” he corrects, slapping her thigh so hard her entire leg shakes.
“No, sir,” she says as a red imprint of Master Shango’s hand survives on her skin.
He slides the index finger inside her pussy. I am looking ahead but I can see that peripherally. It is as if he penetrated me. He comments that her pussy is tight, as I had told him in our emails. I feel my white wife’s rage as she realizes that the first part of this drama, of what she probably still considers a violation, was enacted by me, probably months ago. I no longer care. All that matters is that Master Shango is in charge.
“Wet and getting wetter,” he says as he moves the finger around. He withdraws it and extends the finger toward me. I don’t have to ask what to do. I wrap my lips around it and pull my head back, cleaning the finger with my tongue. I begin to waddle back, thinking this is all he wanted – and I do not to intrude. But he grabs my nose, like I’m a schoolboy, and tells me to stay there, he’ll have more sucking for me to do.
“Yes, Master Shango,” I say through my pinched nostrils.
My white wife doesn’t look at me. I’m a worm to her now. It doesn’t bother me. What did she think, all those years? I was an A-one provider, thoughtful on her birthday, dutiful in bed. But so the fuck what? Those qualities fell away easily, like my clothes. They were about as substantial as my clothes. This is the root of what male and female should be, the physically superior Black Man with the physically submissive white wife. Not just a white woman, a white wife. A white woman who has experienced the white husband to his limit and is about to go further, like a rocket jetting through the atmosphere to the abode of the Gods. That is where the new world will be built, on the ruins of white husbands everywhere.
I am back in the moment as I see Master Shango’s arms move. He reaches up for her tits and mashes them hard. He grabs two fistfuls and pulls her forward and down so he can see her face up close for the first time. He looks at her strong cheekbones, her blue eyes. She is looking ahead. He orders her to get on her knees. She seems reluctant so he pulls her down by the tits. She drops, hard.
She looks at him, not defiantly now but for the first time with a trace of fear…and respect. The fear comes from having her tits used in a new way, painfully and as a tool, not as a source of pleasure. The respect comes from the fact that he did not use them for his pleasure but for her training. Men had always pawed them for fun. Even she begins to understand how shallow and temporary that was.
Master Shango releases her tits and grabs her hair, pulls her toward him. Their mouths are just a few inches apart. He orders her to kiss him, not the other way around.
I wondered whether she was going to kiss him or fall toward him and envelope his mouth with her full lips. Turns out she wasn’t quite ready for that level of submissiveness, though it was amazing to consider how far she had come in just a few minutes! She obeys, kissing him like a whore would, not as a lover; she is fulfilling a contract that he has dictated. I know she likes kissing and I can’t help but think she is liking these large and experienced lips on hers. Master Shango is truly a god, understanding these creatures without having to chat them up. I think with contempt at the vanilla world again, at the white men and even the ‘white’ black men who have talked to her at cocktail parties and bars. We are all so lame, living in the shadow of this Giant.
Master Shango’s tongue goes to work in her mouth, drawing her tongue into his. He works her mouth like he’s fucking a pussy. My white wife is leaning forward awkwardly and I see her hands go onto his knees to steady herself. I watch her fingers from the corner of my eye. They are not just resting there, they are clutching.
He has her, even if she doesn’t fully realize that yet.
He breaks the kiss.
“You know what’s going in your mouth next?” he does not ask, he states.
She nods and he slaps her, hard. “You got a voice. Use it.”
“Yes, Master Shango,” she says quietly.
“Tell me what is going in your mouth, slut,” he orders.
“Your cock, Master Shango.”
“’Your Superior Black Cock, Master Shango,’” he says patiently.
She repeats what he said. He slaps her again, leaving a mark on her face. He orders her to say it with conviction. She inhales, wants to break down and cry – but why, I wonder? From shock and pain, yes. But also, a little, from disappointing him? Has it reached that stage already?